Just Close Your Eyes
by MetaphoricallySane
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock' post-Reichenbach feels. Sometimes Sherlock is there. Sometimes John knows he is gone forever, but his belief will never die.


**Just Close Your Eyes**

Johnlock

(BBC Sherlock)

Vivid pain, as if it was real. Worse than gunfire, worse than sirens, it was a desperate warning that there was danger. And yet there was silence. In his head there was destruction, the reek of love burning, trapped and helpless but to accept the truth.

The truth that he had watched him die.

The more he stared the more he realised that Sherlock wasn't there, that he never would be, that he was alone. That wasn't going to change.

Lying on Sherlock's sofa he could still catch the scent of him in the air, as if he'd just gone out for milk. He would be home any second. Of course he would.

But the longer John watched the door the longer he was in denial.

Mrs Hudson gave him a cup of tea. It was cold before he noticed it. She put dinner in the oven. It burnt. She bought fresh food. It went off before he even thought about eating.

He just waited. He didn't sleep. Didn't talk. Didn't really think. Just waited.

He lost count of hours, days, and soon time didn't mean anything at all. It was just in the way, between him and Sherlock. He had to come home.

John believed in him. He was real. Not dead. He was out there, he was real and he was alive.

Except he wasn't here.

Lestrade walked through the front door one day to find John staring up at him, in the exact same spot he had been since last week. His eyes were red, but he hadn't been crying. Greg got the feeling he hadn't even breathed since Sherlock's fall.

"Mate," he said slowly, kneeling down. The doctor's gaze hardly shifted from the door. "You need to rest."

"No I don't," Watson replied, his voice groggy, his breath sterile, his throat scratching from talking already. "I need Sherlock."

"But he'd not… John, he's not coming back…"

"Yes he is!" John hissed, suddenly fiercely loyal. "Don't ever doubt him! Not again!"

"I never-"

"Liar. You fucking liar, Lestrade. Everyone did. I even…"

He dropped his head, shut his eyes, cringed against the threatening tears. He wanted the release so badly, to express his agony once and for all, but it never helped. It just made him weaker. It just made him want Sherlock even more. When he looked back up his eyes were bloodshot and dark.

"Please. Leave. He'll be home. Any moment now."

Greg stood up and looked down at him in a mixture of pity and regret. He wanted to help, but what could he do? The man was delusional. He wondered for a second if Sherlock's psychopathic tendencies had slipped from him to his flatmate. He even considered if John was on drugs, but this… strike or whatever he was doing was too real. He could see it in his eyes – the soldier believed, he really believed, that Sherlock was alive.

And who was Lestrade to take away a madman's last hope?

He shut the door behind him and John wept, futilely, angrily, infuriated that his emotions could overrule his faith once more. It was fine. It was all fine. He was here, at home, safe, waiting. Couldn't be long now…

Sometime around midnight he dragged himself to his next post of vigil: Sherlock's room. He lay on the bed, hardly daring to crease it as those sweet scents of the past swirled around him like a dream. He buried his face in Sherlock's pillow, inhaled, exhaled, inhaled again, wanting to drown in it. The windows were still a crack open as they had been left and the wind whispered to him. He could hear his voice. As he looked around in vain he saw a shadow swirl into his shape, but he knew he was imagining it.

He had waited so long.

What could possibly get better now?

Shutting his eyes again he began talking to himself. It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. Mrs Hudson had last called Lestrade over when she'd found him yelling at the skull, saying it was "all his fault", and once again she had confiscated it, throwing John back into his lonely depressive pilgrimage around his memories.

"I know. I know. I'm crazy. I should get help. But you know what? I don't want help. I don't want anything anymore… Just you… Come home…"

A breeze caught his neck and he caught his own stench. He was suddenly old, trembling, ill, starved, exhausted. He was dying.

"Sherlock… please…"

"John. I'm right here. Just close your eyes."

He didn't understand; he had to be imagining it… But what was wrong with believing it? He knew it was wrong. He knew he'd lost it, he deserved a straight jacket (especially with that gun in the cupboard) but he couldn't resist. It was so…

Real.

"S-Sherlock?"

"It's alright. Don't worry."

"I knew you were alive."

A dry chuckle. The kind he missed. That voice, so soft it was silk, and John ran his fingers through it, savouring every syllable and sound from his Sherlock.

"Where did you go?"

"Away."

John smiled softly to himself, realising he was crying gently with relief – or insanity. He didn't care. Sherlock was here. "Promise me you won't leave. Not again."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"You know I don't care for sentimentalities."

"I know, Sherlock… I know…"

He felt warmth on his cheeks, a hand, lips. The scent infused his mind – chemicals, aftershave: Sherlock. He was shaking with joy as his love struggled up and kept on going, never giving up, always hoping, always believing.

"Whenever you need me, just close your eyes. I'll be right here."

Sherlock's hand brushed his chest as his heart truly beat for the first time since the fall.

And then it was cold again. John opened his eyes, looking frantically everywhere for him. Just one more word. Just one more kiss. Just one more moment…

One week later he lay there again, eyes tightly shut, but Sherlock wasn't there. Something was wrong. It was like something was limiting him, blocking him from finding his friend again.

Mrs Hudson had found him and taken him to see Ella, his old psychiatrist. It hadn't helped. She had handed him the medication and that was that.

He turned the bottle in his palm disdainfully. It was in liquid form and he could taste it now – it was foul, like licking paint off of the seabed. But he had to take it. She said he needed it, judging by his hallucinations…

"They're not hallucinations," John murmured, clutching it tighter. "They're real! HE'S REAL!"

The bottle smashed to the floor in a million painful shards, and John closed his eyes, waiting for Sherlock, or waiting for this to end.


End file.
